


The Birthday Prince

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Parenting, Ensemble Cameos - Freeform, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Birthdays have never been for Hubert. Being with Ferdinand forces him to confront this.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117
Collections: Ferdibert Birthday Bash 2020





	The Birthday Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to these beautiful buffoons.
> 
> Ferdinand uses the referenced warp beads in the completely unrelated [Warped](%E2%80%9D).

Ferdinand greets Hubert with coffee and a kiss on the cheek, beaming as if they didn’t just share a bed. Almost a year of this has not dulled Hubert’s wonder. To step out of his nightmares and into warmth given freely can never be taken for granted, but he expects it now. As they sit down for breakfast, he allows himself pride at this small, precious thing, the comfortable space they’ve carved for themselves.

That is, until Ferdinand asks after his plans for the day, and his fingers clench around his cup.

In the Vestra household, _birthday_ was only uttered in regard to royal gatherings, during which Hubert was schooled to keep an eye out for uninvited guests and poisoned cakes. Frippery always hid a dark underpinning.

Edelgard respected this. Despite occasional probing about his feelings, she insisted he ignore tradition and spend the day as he wished, which meant at her side and in her service. They even launched their attack on Garreg Mach before his 21st birthday, sparing him the professor’s piercing attention. And who else would shower confetti on Hubert von Vestra?

The answer sits across from him. Of course Ferdinand would think it appropriate to throw Hubert a ball, or at least a party. A waste of time and resources, not to mention a chance to let down his guard.

“I have my standard duties,” Hubert answers, and drains his cup. Ferdinand changes the subject, commenting on the birds that have returned from Faerghus to sing through their window. Before he can change it back, Hubert leaves for work.

It took so long just to get used to the kiss and the coffee.

* * *

The rest of the morning proceeds as planned. Hubert and his network keep Edelgard safe, if with more rigor than usual. The difference is only a sign he was too lax before. Ferdinand works on his initiative for public education, and everyone prepares for the upcoming celebration—the anniversary of the war’s end. A nightmare for security, but necessary for morale.

In charge of such an event, Hubert would forget his birthday if not for Ferdinand. He is more present than usual, fetching things Hubert didn’t ask for, watching him with open adoration, and touching his knee beneath the council table—all without mentioning a celebration. The lack of acknowledgement doesn’t soothe him. Silence means an enemy poised to attack—or, in this case, a smitten man armed with tiered displays of confections and a poetry recitation. In private, if Hubert is lucky.

When Ferdinand disappears before dinner, Hubert fears the worst. That is, the third worst, after Ferdinand being dead or kidnapped. By the time he enters Hubert’s office with two plates of coffee-encrusted steak, all but mooing, Hubert envisions a parade of trumpet players following.

None do. Ferdinand settles in a chair to eat, his face taking a fascinating journey at the first mouthful.

“Apologies,” he says with a laugh. “I should have left this to the chefs, or at least followed a recipe.”

“The flavors and temperature are to my taste,” Hubert allows, “though perhaps a different preparation would be less gritty.” 

“There is no need for tact.”  
  
“In that case, I think I shall be picking coffee grounds out of my teeth until my next birthday.”

The word falls out without thought. Sensing a trap, Hubert spears a cut of meat. Ferdinand, who has given up on his steak, clasps his hands together.

“On that note…”

Hubert chews without making a face. Whatever is to come, he can face it with a spymaster’s constitution, a minister’s dignity, and some attempt to spare Ferdinand’s feelings. Ferdinand reaches into his jacket and pulls out a box—flat, long, and unassuming. Hubert sets aside his cutlery to inspect it.

“It is not booby-trapped, I promise,” Ferdinand says. Despite his teasing, it jolts Hubert to realize he’s right. Anything that has only passed through Ferdinand’s hands is safe.

He slides off the lid to reveal a dagger in a dark sheathe. It is built to serve a purpose, not sit on a mantel, with no decorations to give away his position. Its weight suits his grip, and its blade proves sharp, though the crafting is a tad rough.

“As with the dinner, I probably should have left it to the experts,” Ferdinand says without laughing. Hubert can’t hide his surprise.

“You made this?”

“Yes. With a blacksmith’s guidance, of course. I suppose I liked the idea of keeping you safe.”

At that, Hubert slides a hand behind Ferdinand’s neck and draws him into a long, firm kiss. He pulls away before they can become preoccupied, though his hand stays, his thumb rubbing the edge of Ferdinand’s scalp.

“Thank you. I shall think of you as I maim our lady’s enemies,” Hubert says.

“A romantic, as always.” The teasing would be more effective were Ferdinand not a puddle in Hubert’s palm. “Is it suitable, then? You need not spare my feelings. It is more important that you have effective tools.”

“Don’t worry, I shall make good use of it.” Its crookedness will only make it better for torture, not that he’ll tell that to Ferdinand.

“That is good to hear. I hope it is all right that we did not do much. I figured you would not appreciate a fuss.”

“You figured correctly. Thank you.”

Ferdinand’s eyes light at the approval. The uncoiling of Hubert’s tension unleashes a wave of fondness for the one who knows him so well, who bothers to know him. He brushes his knuckles across Ferdinand’s cheek in apology. To think, he wasted energy worrying about a non-existent party. Perhaps they should have discussed it beforehand.

Imagining how smug that conclusion would make Ferdinand, he drops the topic for the year. He has more important birthday plans to finalize.

* * *

The first time Hubert attended one of Ferdinand’s parties, Ferdinand turned five. Large for seven and small for an attendant, Hubert stuck to the shadows until Edelgard seized his hand and marched over to the ‘birthday prince’ atop a makeshift throne, surrounded by presents and pastries.

“Your clothes don’t match,” Edelgard told Ferdinand.

He had rooted around the garden that morning, soiling the costume prepared for his part. Whatever ended up accompanying his toy crown, Hubert doesn’t remember and doesn’t care. He only remembers that most of the attendees were twice Ferdinand’s height, and his rosy face shone at the sight of the pair, only to redden further at Edelgard’s remark. He launched into some drivel about how his party was the best, as if the princess he spoke to wouldn’t receive grander. Hubert hadn’t pointed that out, only clung to Edelgard’s hand.

Near the end, they slipped away to Ferdinand’s room, which he had been antsy to do the whole time. He crawled behind satin pillows for a box. Inside sat a frog he secretly obtained from the garden.

“Let’s put it in the rudest adult’s boot,” Edelgard suggested.

“No!” the others exclaimed before scrunching their noses at each other.

Ferdinand’s concern was for the frog. Hubert’s was for himself, should the three of them get caught, the other two exonerated by default. He didn’t say so. The frog returned to the box, and Hubert tried not to shudder with relief.

That shivering child is long gone. With control over Imperial holidays, Hubert waves away suggestions for a ball or parade in honor of the prime minister. Let the citizens go about their day, and deny unscrupulous nobles the chance to suck up. Ferdinand, who wears matching suits and chooses his own friends, will have a day of people who look him in the eye and see him.

* * *

A fortnight later, Hubert has triple-checked his arrangements with Edelgard, the florist, and the opera house, among others. His opinions on grand gestures are irrelevant. Executing plans for those he cherishes is all that gets him out of bed.

On the 30th, he throws off his sheet with a racing heart and a grip on his closest dagger. He lights the room with a snap. Before he even absorbs the scene, a cloying smell suffocates him with proof of invasion. 

“What is it, dear?” Ferdinand asks through a yawn, sitting up more slowly. The sight of him, rumpled beside Hubert, is as jarring as anything; it is rare for them to wake together. Normally, Hubert remains stealthy, if he gets up first.

He growls low in Ferdinand’s ear as he positions himself in front, preparing to warp if necessary. “Someone broke into our chambers.” Ferdinand tenses and presses a hand to Hubert’s back.

“How…? Oh.”

 _Oh?_ Ferdinand looks unconcerned, if flushed, at the bevy of flowers that crowds every wall of their room: clusters of red roses, a rainbow of gladioli, and an occasional sunflower tilted as if to shine light on it all. Nothing illuminates a corner where an intruder could hide, or the reason for…

Hubert stares. “You filled your own room with flowers. For your own birthday.”

“ _Our_ room,” Ferdinand whispers, more upset than is warranted. Hubert forces himself to uncurl. They’re safe; Ferdinand is safe. “I am sorry. It was not supposed to scare you.”

Hubert returns his dagger, the one Ferdinand crafted, to its place beneath his pillow. The one time he brought it into the dungeons, it was like bringing a conscience, something he must leave at the top of the stairs.

“I was not scared. Only startled,” Hubert says. Ferdinand rubs between his shoulder blades, and Hubert smoothes down a horizontal clump of Ferdinand’s hair. “I did order you a bouquet. It’s nothing so extravagant, however.” More seemed wasteful, not to mention the cleanup. “I assume you anticipated as much?”

“It was not like that! I just could not help myself. Consider it a little art project between Bernadetta and I. We may have had too much fun specifying the arrangement.”

Bernadetta’s influence explains the unorthodox aesthetic. Black flowers fan out in the shape of a wing, and some of the roses at the installation’s heart are dead, shedding a trail of petals like blood on the floor.

“I hope you meant for it to be falling apart,” Hubert says.

“Yes, you see, it is a study in contrast. There is no life without death, thus, the darker patches only enhance the vibrancy. Do you not agree?”

Shocks of yellow draw his eye away from the mess at the composition’s core. Its chaos has a certain order, holding his attention in a loop.

“I do, actually.” His remaining tension dissipates. Paperwork doesn’t exactly indulge Ferdinand’s creative side; his birthday is as good a time as any for an outlet. Hubert leans into the excuse, pressing their mouths together before they’ve left their bedroom.

Ferdinand sighs against his lips. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Hubert strokes his cheek. “Happy birthday.”

They can’t dawdle in bed long, if they want a moment of peace at the table. Hubert gets out the tea set in careful ritual. He slices open a package from Lorenz, addressed to him with express instructions. Focused on brewing the Leicester Cortania, Hubert almost misses Ferdinand reaching for coffee.

“Not today,” Hubert says, placing a hand over Ferdinand’s. “Relax for a few minutes more.”

“If you insist. But make yourself some, at least.”

With no intention of using up Ferdinand’s special tea, Hubert opens the coffee Ferdinand left out. Its rich aroma draws him in; he could have sworn they were halfway through an older jar. “When did we get this?”

“Ah, a Dagdan merchant was just in town. It's freshly roasted.”

A veil of surrealism still disrupts his morning, but as always, there is nothing threatening about Ferdinand’s smile across the table.

* * *

Despite Edelgard suggesting they take the day off, work doesn’t halt for arbitrary dates. A last-minute addition to the anniversary event has Hubert ordering in more guards as well as vetting the one who proposed it. Before completing his investigation, he assigns extra snipers to Edelgard and Ferdinand. The sense he’s missing something has been nagging him since that morning, and he won’t let that something be their safety.

As always, Ferdinand’s focus is farther ahead, this time to trouble with funding his schools. He’s still ranting about it to Hubert on their way to dinner. With some of their friends abroad, Ferdinand has declined the palace’s dining hall in favor of a more private chamber, where Edelgard sits with perfect poise.

“I know rebuilding efforts take priority, but to hear that from someone who lined his coffers by—ah! Edelgard! You look radiant, as always,” Ferdinand says. Naturally, Hubert can’t disagree, even if the simplicity of her dark velvet suit and easy smile puts him off kilter.

“There is no need to flatter me on your own birthday,” Edelgard says. “Though I do hope this entire meal won’t be a continuation of the council meeting.”

Ferdinand assures Edelgard it won’t and compliments her braids. His own suit, black with green embroidery, sets off the bright flare of his ponytail. Were they alone, Hubert would tease a ringlet free. The couple pulls out elegant chairs for each other before sharing a look.

“Whose birthday is it?” Hubert asks when his arched brow is not enough. Ferdinand takes the offered chair with a grumble.

“I swear you only bring up such things when they suit you.”

"You two are equally absurd,” Edelgard says. Neither can form an argument to dissuade her.

A candelabra lights the dark wooden table. Its orange glow softens Edelgard’s edges. Ferdinand eats his pheasant and berry sauce with a pleased hum, rather than launching into a review of its merits, evidence he truly enjoys it. That is enough for Hubert, who skirts around his own portion in favor of a pile of pickled foods he can’t recall ordering.

After the others finish yet more berries heaped with cream, Edelgard retrieves presents. Ferdinand reads Petra’s letter aloud with great drama before exclaiming over a carved wooden horse. It comes with a handful of books the three of them pass around. That alone would keep them occupied were it not for the variety of magical items Constance sent, among them some special blooming teas.

They turn to Edelgard’s gifts. Antique maps trace trade routes and other historical developments, which Hubert and Ferdinand put their heads together to study.

“I also prepared this for you, Ferdinand,” she says with an emphasis Hubert can’t place. Ferdinand seems similarly bemused as he unwraps the tall present. Exposing a ruby-decorated hilt, he finishes with a care that grows reverent. The longsword trembles in his hands.

“I assume you recognize it?” Edelgard asks. “It was most famously wielded by—”

“Emperor Hildegardis, in her glory days. She was rumored to have slept holding it. I could not possibly accept this.”

“Is it not suitable?”

“Is _it_ not suitable? I... I mean, it is part of your inheritance!”

“An inheritance which was to be split at least eleven ways, according to traditions I have spurned. It falls to me to pass it on as I choose.”

“And you…” Ferdinand goes so slack Hubert would hold him together, were this his moment. He folds his arms behind his back while Ferdinand whispers, “El.”

It falls from his lips, a voice like an echo. Only Ferdinand could reciprocate a gift so promptly. Edelgard pats his hand.

“Enough of that. I can’t have my best knight crying over a blade.”

His laugh covers a hiccup. “Of course not.”

Hubert and Edelgard sorted through the relics together, deciding which dusty, useless things had no place in her palace, and which still served a purpose. Imagining Ferdinand’s face at the gift persuaded them not to throw it out. But he could not have predicted how his own chest would swell, hit with the knowledge that the rest of the palace could fall away, and the household he keeps would stand in this room.

* * *

It has been a while since Hubert attended the opera; even skillful performances take minutes to reach his limit of melodrama. He doesn’t plan to pay attention tonight. Mentally, he maps out the exits and guard postings. Edelgard’s absence would mean laxer security, were it not for the date drawing attention to Ferdinand. Hubert practices half-drawn sigils while surveying the crowd, noting too many who crank their necks toward the ministers’ balcony.

Just as frequently, Ferdinand glances at Hubert and rubs his palm over Hubert’s knuckles. In this hall where performers create a miniature world of intrigue, their multi-colored silks shimmering like an aurora under the chandeliers, his attention presses on Hubert.

In the past, when Ferdinand sat alone and Hubert stood guard, Ferdinand remained glued to the performance. It was Hubert who studied his reactions: his eyes on a particular performer, his fingers clutching his armrest, his teeth teasing his lip, all clues for what mattered and why. Today, Hubert also appreciates the flecks of green in Ferdinand’s eyes, brought out by the emerald cravat pin Hubert attached earlier, with no mention of its newness.

This opera keeps his attention more than most. The characters, all locked in an extravagant party, go missing one by one, and their attempts to investigate lead to further tragedies. Dorothea’s character delivers a mournful song that previous performers sang as one long wail. Her rendition is quieter, casting a veil over the audience, resonating with the truth of her strained behavior during the war.

Other differences begin to disrupt the thread of the narrative. “Wasn’t the butler supposed to be arrested after that song?” Hubert asks.

“Since suspense is such an important part of this show, the crew decided to change up some elements. I have heard it has a new ending entirely.”

“I didn’t think this was your type of show.”

“Certainly, I have respect for the classics, but one must support artists who innovate. Look—that dancer’s steps are less fluid than most in their role.”

“They seem injured.” Were they attacked backstage? No, it looks intentional. “A sprain while they fled the scene, perhaps?”

Ferdinand gasps and claps his hands together. “Oh, they are usually so unassuming!”

They continue to whisper theories, close enough for their temples and cheeks to brush. At the end, Ferdinand pulls away to give effusive applause, and Hubert can’t account for how long they’ve spent conjoined, oblivious to the eyes below.

That isn’t why he takes Ferdinand’s arm to guide him down a back hall, which offers a reprieve from the harsh lights and hundreds of bodies. Dorothea exits her dressing room, her black gown trailing behind her without her mourning veil. Her gloves remain, concealing hands almost as mottled from magic as Hubert’s. The besotted fools in the audience would no doubt recoil at the sight.

Ferdinand leaps from Hubert’s hold to kiss Dorothea’s cheek, launching into praise at her performance.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she says. “We can’t rearrange our schedule for just anyone, but—”

“I hope you did not feel too obligated on my behalf, but I greatly appreciate it.”

Hubert can’t interpret Dorothea’s expression, or the rushed interaction. Swept up in his review, Ferdinand doesn’t notice the other two leading him to one of the practice rooms.

“And the choreography in that final scene was…”

Ferdinand cuts off as he freezes. Manuela perches at a piano, playing a melody that Ferdinand has hummed in the bath.

“Come in,” she says, her fingers continuing their dance. Ferdinand steps forward like a soldier in a line. Manuela rises and sweeps over with a cluck. “Oh, that form won’t do. ”

“Form? I do not—it is a pleasure to see you, as always, but…”

She waves a hand. “The pleasure is mine. Now, would you like to pick a sword? You’ll want to borrow one of our costumes, of course. We can’t have you dancing in that stiff suit.”

“Dancing?” His squawk does not reveal the melodious tenor he can manage. Seeming to wobble, he casts a look to Hubert like a lifeline. Hubert can’t suppress his smirk.

“Well? Shouldn’t you get started right away? Manuela is a busy woman, you know,” he says.

Dorothea ushers Hubert out before Ferdinand can combust. When Hubert presses his ear to the door, Dorothea loudly asks him to accompany her down the hall.

“I don’t care if you’ll hate me saying so, this was sweet of you to arrange,” Dorothea says. Her hand rests in Hubert’s elbow, if only to show she can get away with it.

“I did little.”

“You mean, besides come up with the whole idea and compensate Manuela for the lesson? You and Ferdie can be too alike.”

The non sequitur confuses him as much as half of what he’s seen that day. But there are fans Dorothea wants him to scare off, a task he accomplishes with half a grin, keeping him occupied for the moment.

* * *

Even from outside their bedroom, the floral installation perfumes their chambers. Ferdinand heaves a sigh as he drops onto the sofa and loosens his cravat. He’s no longer puffy eyed, as he was when Hubert picked him up, to Hubert’s alarm until he was assured it was only sentiment.

Hubert retrieves a pouch before joining him. Ferdinand teases the top open as if it might release poison gas. Instead, pellets spill out into his palm.

“Warp beads, from Morfis,” Hubert says. “Even without magical skill, you can use them to warp to an anchor. I took the liberty of setting it up in our chambers. Should you ever find yourself in peril…”

“I understand. I am sure it will keep me safe.” He presses a kiss to Hubert’s jaw.

Silence falls, no meetings or crowds or even Ferdinand’s voice, with a day full enough to tire him. Only the floral aroma pervades the air. A thorough scrubbing won’t be enough to rid them of it. As if Ferdinand needed another way to seep into Hubert’s skin, even when he’s not trying.

Something clicks, like a trap activating. _Is_ he not trying? An opera with a fresh murder mystery, gifts they spent equal time perusing, even the blasted coffee. A hundred other details that have tilted Hubert’s day slightly to the left.

He is on his feet before he can think about it. “Ferdinand. What is the meaning of this?”

“Of what?”

“I believe you know what.” Hubert crosses his arms and looks down at Ferdinand, who stares up at him with wide eyes. “It is your birthday, and you are the one who enjoys such celebrations. What is the rationale for making it about me?”

Flushing, Ferdinand spreads his arms. “I did not make it about you.”

“Then what was all this about?” He sweeps his arm toward the source of that nauseating waft.

“It was about _us_! I knew you would hate to indulge on your own birthday, yet it would bring me no joy to be spoiled rotten, as I was once was, without you to share in my delight.”

“Then this was all a scheme to celebrate my birthday without my knowledge?”

“I would not put it like that. I only wished for us to have a good day together. Did we not?”

So his instincts hadn’t been wrong. Yet, there is no enemy to root out, only a red-faced and bedraggled Ferdinand, in need of rest. Still clutching his own sleeves, Hubert forces himself to sheathe his sharp edges.

“I suppose we did,” he says.

Ferdinand’s mouth twists, too wry to be pure relief. “To be frank, I am past the point of considering my birth an achievement. I would have been as happy with any chance to spend time together. But you began preparations as early as you did for the peace anniversary, and I wished to make the most of your efforts.”

It is all so circular it makes Hubert’s head pound. A fortnight ago, he should have swallowed his pride and admitted these things should be discussed—especially when he claimed to understand Ferdinand. He lowers to his knees and takes one of Ferdinand’s hands. Ferdinand waits, curiosity plain on the features tilted down toward Hubert, while he gathers his thoughts.

“You understood Her Majesty’s gift, did you not?” Hubert asks. From his position, the open emotion dancing on Ferdinand’s face almost undoes him.

“I think so. At least, I hope I did.”

“I am Minister of the Imperial Household. I have a duty.”

Ferdinand sucks in a breath. “Oh. Oh, no. Not to me.”

Hubert gets no further before Ferdinand sandwiches his hand with both of his, clutching it in the air between them.

“We are fellow ministers. Partners. And she is our dearest friend, as we are hers,” Ferdinand says. Hubert’s throat goes too dry for him to form a riposte. “Have we not done much together already?”

Hubert cannot deny it. Whether that means winning a war, or releasing a frog in the backyard, safe and secret.

Ferdinand cups Hubert’s face. “I am sorry for not speaking about this sooner. Please, sit beside me,” Ferdinand says.

Again Hubert is on his feet without thinking. After he sinks into the sofa cushion, he regains some of his faculties.

“I suppose no harm was done. But I will bring this up next time you lecture me for keeping secrets,” Hubert says.

Ferdinand smiles thinly. “Fair enough. I cannot pretend to regret it. After all, you will be on duty during the peace anniversary. Besides, this moon contains another anniversary, does it not?”

Hubert softens. “That it does.”

It is difficult to pin a day to years of hard-earned trust, to quiet talks over tea and coffee, a confession here and a lingering touch there. But before the final battle, they vowed to return to Enbarr together, and they are men of their word.

“How kind of our friends to observe it as well,” Ferdinand says.  
  
“How so?” They kept their relationship private as long as possible. Nobody but perhaps Edelgard, in her infinite wisdom, should be able to guess at a date.

“Based on the discussions I had with everyone beforehand, I was not expecting such an array of gifts,” Ferdinand says.

He picks up the wooden horse from their coffee table. It may seem laughable for that ‘birthday prince’ of long ago to look so perplexed, but a personal gesture from a loved one is another matter, as Hubert knows well.

“Do you not think they wanted you to enjoy your own birthday, rather than squander it spoiling me?”  
  
“I did not squander it! I was truly happy to be with you.”

Hubert trails his fingers down Ferdinand’s cheek, letting his own face display his fondness. “As was I.”


End file.
